Time
by TB's LMC
Summary: Ever since the hydrofoil crash that nearly cost Gordon his life, he's felt like a marked man. A short one-shot in which the aquanaut isn't quite the happy-go-lucky guy you're used to seeing.


_Author's Note: I am grateful for Jaimi-Sam's advice (in amongst the five thousand other things she has to do) on how to make this better, and I did my best. But largely what you're getting is a story that was written in a one-hour vacuum where Space and Time seemed to stop existing while I watched like the most intrusive kind of voyeur as this scene played out. So if there are any mistakes, I'm the one to blame._

_For Gordon._

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><p><strong>TIME<strong>

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><p>He eyed the calendar on the wall of his sitting room. A soft inhalation of breath. A whispered "Only five days more" on the exhale.<p>

Gordon Tracy didn't consider himself accident prone. Yet ever since the hydrofoil crash during his time in WASP, a series of what he referred to as Lemony Snicket-type Unfortunate Events sometimes made him feel like a marked man.

With a shake of his head, Gordon sat down on the edge of his favorite recliner. He'd practically lived in the old brown thing for six months after the accident. It'd been nine-and-a-half years since his discharge from the hospital, and he noted how faded the fabric's pattern of beige geometric shapes had become. His thumb swiped absently along a spot where the armrest was particularly worn from him having scrabbled at it with his fingernails while in the throes of debilitating muscle spasms.

With a shudder, he turned his attention to a calendar hung on the opposite wall. The photo on the top half featured two humpback whales frozen in time as they swam side-by-side. He tried to let their serenity ground him in reality, but after a few minutes had to admit it wasn't working as well as it usually did.

It was December 27, 2034. Only five days, give or take a few hours, until January 1, 2035. Five days to go before he could believe his luck had finally changed.

Five days in which anything could happen, given his history.

In 2026, Gordon's hospitalization a few months after their first rescue ever had been the result of an explosion in their underwater biosphere a mile off Tracy Island. Thank God Brains had been nearby to pull him to the surface in one piece.

The year after, he'd been winching down from _Thunderbird Two_'s nose in the Rockies and had fallen fifty feet to the ground when heat from the forest fire melted his harness straps. The damage to his back kept him out of action for weeks. Then in 2028 his Mercedes had been double-T-boned at a Manhattan intersection by two cabbies who'd ignored the red lights they should've stopped for. That one had broken his left leg.

The next year he'd suffered hypothermia in Antarctica, and then in 2030 came the near-total destruction of Dubai when a meteorite slammed into their largest oil refinery, resulting in half the city burning to the ground. Partway up a skyscraper, dangling from a ledge, he'd almost bought the farm.

2031: Second-degree burns on both legs when one of Brains' experiments had released a burst of low-grade radiation as it failed.

2032: A rogue wave capsized his twin-hulled Research Vessel _Psyche_, resulting in several broken bones and a nasty laceration to his forehead.

In January of last year while helping repair _Thunderbird One_'s fuselage, the mobile crane carrying her new nose had unexpectedly jerked the thing his way. The sharp, pointed tip of the bright red nose piece had sliced through Gordon's arm to the bone.

"Shit like this just doesn't happen," Alan had pointed out later on at Gordon's hospital bedside after several hours of surgery to repair his arm. "Except to you, I swear to God."

There had been more Truth to Alan's statement than even _he_ wanted to think about.

So here it was, December 27, 2034. Only five days until Gordon could safely say he was out of the woods. That he'd broken the unlucky streak. That he'd gone an entire calendar year without encountering anything more life-threatening than a bruise.

His eyes moved slightly upward to the large black numbers resting atop 'December.'

2034.

They tilted left and then right. He blinked.

2034.

The zero moved to lie down sideways, pushing the two and the three aside as if to mimic Gordon falling. Failing. Not making it to New Year's Eve, when his entire family would be gathered round the pool getting drunk, singing off-key and telling the same damn stories they told every time they gathered to get sloshed.

Gordon blinked again. Shook his head.

The year was mocking him. There were four numbers…only four…

Four brothers instead of five.

He swallowed hard, felt his heart start pounding. Hammering. Trying to get through his rib cage. Scared that if it stayed within, the Curse would make it beat no more.

The numbers were dancing now. Vision blurred. Short, rapid breaths. The room, spinning.

Then suddenly the numbers were gone and he was on the deck of the _USS Io_. He reveled in the tiny pinpricks that going so very fast over the water's surface made of the ocean spray hitting his face. The smell of the salt air, the chill of the Atlantic Ocean's winter temperatures.

Breaths came faster. Heart raced.

He turned to look up through the windows of the bridge at Captain Griffin, who was piloting this unscheduled test run of WASP's newest hydrofoil. They'd launched her from their duty vessel, the _USS Gen. J.T. Millar_, after convincing the captain that a test between Christmas and New Year's Day was perfect given the lack of activity in the area. Griffin had only agreed to it, Gordon and his shipmates had been sure, out of sheer boredom.

He tried to wave his arms to get the captain's attention. Tried to open his mouth to yell. Tried to get his legs to obey his command to run, so he wouldn't be at the foredeck of the vessel when it flipped.

But Gordon couldn't move.

Somewhere he knew in the back of his mind that none of it was real; that this had happened years ago. That it was only a memory. It registered that he was hyperventilating, but he couldn't stop it.

He couldn't stop _any_ of it.

Suddenly, the wave. Not very large, but at those speeds – well over two hundred miles per hour – it had been enough.

Gordon felt weightless. Heard a voice cry out. Realized it was his own. Saw himself, the crew and the _Io_ flip wildly through the air like some twisted rendition of a circus act gone terribly wrong.

Hit the water.

Stopped breathing.

Somewhere a voice cut through the murky depths. The brilliant heat of a fire too close illuminated the darkness closing in on his field of vision.

"Gordon!"

Something hard was beneath him.

Someone was shaking him.

His eyes popped open. The first thing he saw was the carpeted floor of his own sitting room. The second thing he saw was a pair of boot-clad feet. It wouldn't process. He wasn't there. He wasn't…

Mouth opened, lungs expanded, a deep, gut-wrenching baritone gasp as he tried desperately to breathe.

"Come on, come on," the voice said.

_What's Alan doing out here?_

"Stop fighting me."

_Can't breathe, can't breathe! Drowning!_

"Up you go, head down."

Why was a siren wailing?

"Come on, Gordo, breathe."

"Alan, report!"

"Hang on, Dad, give us five."

Five. Days? Five days. Five brothers. Five hours. Five _Thunderbirds_. Five seconds.

Dad? What?

Somehow sitting upright, legs forced to bend, then spread apart, head being shoved between his knees.

"Inhale."

He did as instructed.

_Why aren't I wet?_

"It's okay."

Blinked and blinked, trying to focus, trying to understand where he was.

"It's the date, Gordon. It'll pass."

The date?

The date.

_Five days._

December 27th.

The anniversary of the hydrofoil accident. In all his thinking about making it through the year without Hurt, he'd completely forgotten.

He wasn't out on the Atlantic nearly dying. He was in his own bedroom suite safe and sound on Tracy Island.

The siren cut off.

Gordon looked up to meet blue eyes filled with concern.

Understanding.

This was the other thing that happened every year. The thing only Alan had ever witnessed. His baby brother had to have been keeping tabs on him somehow. Watching. Waiting.

A deep, shuddering breath. Tears leaking from his eyes. Alan wiping them away without a word.

"We've got a call." Said softly. Regretfully.

Gordon nodded.

Only five days left for the Universe to try and kill him again, and on the tail end of a panic attack he had to go out on a rescue.

"Are you with me?" Alan asked.

Nodding slowly, Gordon took his brother's offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He realized it was dark outside.

"Alan," came their father's voice through his wristwatch, "stand down. We're letting the New Zealand Auxiliary handle this one. Scott's going to talk them through it."

Men and women around the world helped International Rescue using equipment provided by the organization, secretly being members of on-call ancillary rescue teams who could do the job without the _Thunderbirds_ having to launch. One such team was going to handle it this time. Gordon breathed a sigh of relief as Alan replied, "FAB."

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, Dad."

Gordon turned to look through the doorway of his sitting room. His sliding glass door was wide open. A gentle breeze wafted through. The sky and ocean beyond were pitch-black with only a handful of stars visible from this distance.

A slight pressure on his shoulder. He looked at Alan's hand, which squeezed gently.

"What time is it?" Gordon asked, grateful to be breathing again, but still as shaky as his voice sounded.

"Twelve oh-three AM."

Five hours. Gordon had been in the midst of that panic attack for five _hours_. What was it with him and that damnable number? He closed his eyes and shook his head.

But the fact that it was now December 28th meant it was over. At least, the anniversary was. Unfortunately, 2034 still had a few days left in which the Fates could torture him.

What was it Kyrano had once said as they'd worked side-by-side in the algae lab and talked of things past? _"You draw these events to yourself based on the fact that you cannot let go of the fear."_

"Gordo?"

"_You draw these events to yourself…"_

"Look at me."

"…_you cannot let go of the fear."_

"You all right?"

"…_let go of the fear."_

He straightened his back, breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, nodding as Alan's hand slipped away.

"…_the fear."_

"Aren't you and Tin-Tin headed to New York later today?"

"We're due to take off in about eight hours, provided we can get back to sleep after the emergency siren blasted us all out of bed. Why?"

"Mind if I catch a ride?"

Alan grinned. "You can't tell me you want to see _Cats_. You _hate_ musicals!"

"So do you."

"Yeah, but it was my Christmas gift to Tin-Tin. I can't very well let _Brains_ take her."

Gordon snorted as his body's trembling finally abated. "No, he'd be going to see _Phantom_ anyway."

"Ugh. If he blasts that soundtrack one more time."

Gordon laughed even as his brother's face grew serious.

"Really, though, why do you want to come with us?"

"There's someone I need to see in Manhattan."

Alan looked at him quizzically for a few seconds, but then nodded. "Okay. Be in the hangar at seven-thirty for pre-flight. We're taking _Tracy Five_."

Five again.

"Will do."

Alan made his way to the door.

Just as it swished open, Gordon called out, "Hey."

Alan stopped. Turned. "Yeah?"

Gordon moved forward and enveloped his younger brother in a hug. "Thanks," he mumbled into his shoulder.

Alan hugged him back. Hard. "Any time." It was the only thing Alan would ever say about it and for that, Gordon was grateful.

As Alan pulled away and moved out into the hall, Gordon retreated to his bedroom, where he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked out at the now-visible Moon that was just coming off being full.

He'd gone to see Dr. Tanner before moving to Tracy Island. His father had insisted upon some sort of therapy to help his son's emotional scars heal as well as his physical ones had. But Gordon had felt he could handle it on his own after a few sessions. He'd had IR to keep him busy, from helping design and build _Thunderbird Four_ to all the training he and his brothers had undergone in preparation. He'd been fine until December 27, 2025 had rolled around. Alan had stayed hidden with him in _Four_'s half-built cockpit for hours that first time.

Over the years Gordon had pulled out the doc's card here and there, thinking maybe he needed to go back. But he'd always returned it to its place in his desk drawer without dialing the digits handwritten on the back. The guy had told him to call any time he needed him – even given him his private number. Though he hadn't spoken to him in a couple years, he was certain that offer still stood.

Sure, it was the holiday season, but under these circumstances he suspected the former Navy man would at least agree to a cup of coffee, if not a full-blow session.

"_You draw these events to yourself based on the fact that you cannot let go of the fear."_

Maybe Kyrano was right after all. Gordon didn't know for sure. But what he _did_ know was that it was time to find out. It was time to stop the panic attacks. Time to deal with what that crash had done to him somewhere deep down in the parts of himself he never looked at too closely.

And time, if their wise and mystical friend's words were true, to stop the Unfortunate Events.

Maybe 2034 _would_ bring Hurt. But it'd be the kind that meant he could move past letting subconscious flip-outs control him, and get on with his life.

Yeah. It was time.


End file.
